


The World As We Know It

by tenshi13



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Gen, Radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 17:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenshi13/pseuds/tenshi13
Summary: Grantaire finds sanctuary where he least expects it





	The World As We Know It

Cities weren’t safe these days, but then again, neither was the country. In the city there was a million places to hide, shops to loot, houses to take shelter. But chances were you weren’t the only one. As for the country, well. In a tossup between the dead and the undead, Grantaire would take the undead. Easier to aim at, for a start.

He reached behind him, taking the bulky radio receiver from a side pocket on his backpack and concentrated to hear through the static. Adjusting the dial gave the white noise a slightly more buzzy quality, but he was still unable to make anything out. He peered down the alleyway, in the direction he’d just emerged from. The dragging footsteps of the dead unmistakable. With any luck they’d stumble right on past and he could go back the way he came. Get back on track. He hadn’t intended on coming this far west, to get lost in the bumbling maze of a city.

The dead paused at the mouth of the alley. Just shy of a metre wide, two people could comfortably pass if they tucked in their elbows. In the other direction, and much further down, it branched off into two, but it wasn’t possible to see if there was a turn off before that from where he stood. The way was partially blocked by some upturned wheelie bins, black plastic bags ripped open. Directly above them was a fire escape, ladder retracted. The stairs wound up more than six flights leading off to various doors.

Once you die your body begins to decompose. Delicate receptors, such as the rods and cones in the eye, were not always well preserved in the reanimated, leading to subpar eyesight. The dead at the mouth of the alley turned their heads to look down it. Grantaire froze. Each limb he held rigid. The closest zombie shuffled forwards a step, cloudy eyes roving; unseeing. Once it had been a woman, and the tattered remains of formal wear hung on her shoulders. Her chest was completely exposed, something had torn a gash through not only the fabric but the skin, leaving the wound to gape open, although it did not bleed. Maggots squirmed in the crevice. Apparently satisfied, it turned slowly, pivoting on one leg. The foot didn’t turn with it, causing the ankle to twist in an unnatural fashion.

A gust of wind howled down the alley, disturbing the rubbish and wafting a rotten stench. Grantaire’s nose twitched, and he shut his eyes as he realised how his body was about to betray him. He sneezed violently. The hoard, let by the one with the gaping chest wound, began to shuffle purposefully forwards.

Grantaire split. He ran full throttle towards the bins, kicked off of one, sending it spiralling behind him and launching himself up towards the fire escape. He reached out, his fingers grabbing onto the rusted metal bar. He hung there for a second, pulse racing out of control. Perhaps, if his heart beat any faster, it would explode out of his chest, and he too would look like that zombie. He pulled, muscles straining, lifting his legs to scrabble for purchase. The old fire escape gave an unearthly groan in protest, which Grantaire barely registered. If he could just reach a little further he could… the fire escape rattled again, flakes of rust flying into his face, blocking his vision. He swung his legs over a bar, letting the weight fall on them to give his tired arms a break. Not as soon as he did so, the metal gave way.

Shit. The zombies were almost directly beneath him, this time unmistakably aware of his whereabouts. They craned their necks up, mouths open as if waiting for him to fall into their jaws. Grantaire collided with the wall, grazing the left side of his body, tearing through clothes and skin, spraying blood into the faces of the undead below. He hadn’t presence of mind to roll to break his fall- did that even work in real life? He scrabbled to his feet, running deeper into the darkened alley. Doors presented themselves either side, but they were locked and barred. A smaller alley branched off. The zombies occupying it did not look up from their meal of carrion. Suddenly the alley veered off to the right, and ended. A brick wall, insurmountable, towered above him.

For the first time Grantaire considered the real possibility, probability, of his death. He was faster than the zombies, so had acquired a considerable lead. He ran back towards them, this time trying all the doors either side. Locked, barred, reinforced. Thirty metres between them and him, twenty, ten. Then – a wooden door, half rotted. He swung at it, the wood splinted. Desperation forcing him onwards he threw his fists, again and again, before hurling his body against the decaying wood. It caved in, an explosion of wood chips in all directions. He fell into a room, dark, unlit, and Grantaire didn’t stop to take stock. He rushed for the stairs, turned arbitrarily down a corridor, then the next. His legs burned with exertion but he didn’t turn around to look, he didn’t want to know if they were close. Perhaps he was a second from being torn limb from limb, or ten. He wanted to know his fate, but he was too cowardly.

A noise up ahead prompted him to slow slightly, soften his footsteps. “Yes but what if…” human voices. The real threat of the city: the living. “Did you hear something?”

Grantaire drew his gun. It was small, loaded with six bullets. He’d fired it only once before. You don’t fight zombies with guns, doesn’t do any good, they just keep on coming, and too loud besides. The gun was for confrontations such as this.

The voices came from a room a little father down. “Maybe we should check, doesn’t hurt to be-”

Grantaire rounded the corner pointing his gun into the room. He found two guns and a baseball bat raised in opposition.

The one with the bat narrowed his eyes at him, “What do you want?”

What did he want. Grantaire balanced on one leg to close the door behind him. The undead were still out there, creeping up behind him, each slow, ineffectual shuffle added to the next, drawing them closer, closer… He noticed his hands clenched around the gun were shaking.

The figure on the left lowered his gun, holding it beside him before dropping it. Grantaire snapped his gun to him. “What are you doing?”

The guy fixed his eyes on Grantaire, “You’re injured, we have medical supplies, we can help you.”

Grantaire tried to make his hands stop shaking, “You need, I need, they have to, the gun, the-“

“Drop the weapons.”

The other two men did not immediately obey, “Enjolras, is this wise?”

“He needs help.”

“He’s also currently pointing a gun at us,” the one wielding the bat pointed out, rationally.

Grantaire didn’t quite catch the response, he felt his weight give out from underneath him, the gun spiralling. A weight touched his arm and he flinched away, but it returned,  
warm and soft. “It’s okay. I’m Courfeyrac, sorry for pointing a gun at you, that was probably rude.”

“You don’t say.” Grantaire’s head was spinning, and suddenly it was only two of them in the room. He was slouched on the floor, supported by the wall. In a small burst of strength he grabbed Courfeyrac’s arm, “The zombies, are they still coming? They were behind me.”

“You’re safe now,” Courfeyrac reassured.

“Safe,” Grantaire repeated, scornfully, “As if.” He still felt too dazed to argue properly, but he was working up to it.

“So sceptical,” Courfeyrac complained, hauling him up by the arm, “Common, the supplies are in the back room, Combeferre will patch you up.”

He was manhandled onto a bed, face up. The one who was, presumably Combeferre (wielder of the baseball bat) sat next to him, carefully peeling away his clothes from the wounds along his sides and a gash he hadn’t even noticed. Literally when had that happened? Courfeyrac hovered in apparent concern. The third man, who had dropped his weapon, was not in the room.

“Who was that, anyway? Where is he?”

“Enjolras you mean?” Courf responded, “Probably on one of the higher levels tinkering with that blasted radio again.”

“Mines a load of shit too, all static usually.”

“Yeah exactly, he wants to increase the signal strength or something but none of us have any clue how radios work so it’s all a bit hit and miss really. We’d hate to break it all together, considering.” He neglected to say considering what.

Grantaire took a moment to process that in his addled brain, “Wait, you’re broadcasting?”

Courf nodded, “Yeah, we broadcast the ABC channel.”

Grantaire spluttered, half in reaction to Courf and half in reaction to Ferre rubbing alcohol into his wounds. The ABC was basically the only channel, or at least the only one in the vicinity. Grantaire knew that further out there were others, loosely connected into a resistance, but they were peripheral. When the blasted static of his radio cleared it was the ABC he could hear on the line, the only friendly human voices he’d heard since- for a very long time. People would radio in and report news, where hordes were located, if it was safe to enter certain locations. He always checked it before sticky situations, just in case something current was in. Beyond practical information it was inane chatter, a litany of bad jokes and old songs. God knows how they played them. He supposed he could ask. He felt, bizarrely, rather star struck.

“So you’re the ABC. Well I’m Grantaire.”

Combeferre nodded, “Pleased to meet you, now hold still, if you would.” Then he dug a needle into Grantaire’s arm.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago and I can't really remember where I was going with it. I think I just wanted a scenario where Grantaire is saved by les amis tbh. What do you think?


End file.
